What do you do when every heartbeat is a thunderstorm?

How terribly strange to be seventeen.
At seventeen, your eyes open to the
Dastardly wicked world we live in.

At seventeen, you can't help but feel outcast
-- an outsider in the adult in crowd.
Innocence is an abstract concept,
for how can you be innocent when you
cannot have purity without corruption?

The world keeps spinning, lives are
created and destroyed. We are all disposable
and -- while some argue that trying to be a
permanent entity in a constantly evolving
universe is asinine -- we crash, burn,
and recreate ourselves.

At certain times, you want it to never end.
You just want to keep going and going in infinitum.
There are so many things to try
and places to see
and sunbeams to feel that 87 years
(if you're one of the lucky ones)
seems like 87 seconds.

As humans, we are questions without answers.
Some desperately seek out the one thing
that will solve their problem.

Others are fine without their answer.
They are too afraid to find out what is after the light.

Me?
I hope it's bewitching and beautiful.